


Of the Dawn's Rising

by thoroneaquila



Series: Of the Dawn's Rising [1]
Category: Horizon: Zero Dawn (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, Suicidal Thoughts, also Kadaman and Avad's mother, eventually, she's called Mirida
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-14
Updated: 2018-09-14
Packaged: 2019-07-12 08:11:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 18,787
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15991196
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thoroneaquila/pseuds/thoroneaquila
Summary: "In the twenty-first year of the thirteenth Sun-King Jiran's reign, the twilight time of his madness, the Sun-King's own favored heir was put to death. The Radiant Kadaman's crime was to demand an end to his father's acts of bloodshed, and his sacrifice set that end in motion." - The LiberationKadaman is only mentioned in two of the scanned glyphs in Horizon: Zero Dawn. He was Jiran's heir, Avad's older brother, destined to be Sun-King after his father's death. He was called Kadaman of the Dawn's Rising, but he was not the one to bring about the new dawn following Jiran's reign of shadow.We now know little about Kadaman except his death. This fic describes his life, his personality, his relationships with his family and friends. It consists of five chapters and each chapter contains several 'events', often with some time between them.But sadly, there is only one way it can end.





	1. Dawn

**Author's Note:**

> AAAAAAAAA
> 
> oh my god, okay, I've been sitting on this like FOREVER, edited it over ten times, I've put a lot into this, and here it is. I'm finally uploading this, all five chapters at once.  
> I began writing HZD fanfic about Avad, but because I was writing about pre-Liberation events of course Kadaman had to be in there. And I mean there was so much potential for tragedy there, which I loved exploring for On breaking and reforging, but somewhere along the way I really started caring about Kadaman. I tend to do this thing where I create a lot of headcanons about someone who's really only mentioned once or twice, and that happened here too.  
> So here's the longest fic I've written to date that I feel is good enough and about which I've remained motivated for long enough to finish writing and editing. I hope you enjoy.
> 
> I edited and proofread it aaaallll byyy myyyyselfff, yay!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In this first part in the series, Dawn, Kadaman and Avad are only children. Jiran has not yet become Sun-King. As of yet, there is not even a hint of the future tragedy on the horizon.

Kadaman was allowed to see the baby two hours after his birth. A little brother, Jiran had told him before hurriedly returning to his wife and newborn son. It was still very early in the morning. The sun had not yet risen.

At regular intervals on the sandstone walls of the inner palace bronze lanterns were mounted. Down here in the sections that were cut into the mesa rocks, the only light was artificial. Now the lamps were dimmed for the night, but during the day there was hardly any difference with the actual sunlight.

Beside Kadaman walked his tutor, tasked by Jiran to follow and guide his every step. "Where do babies come from?" Kadaman asked him.

The man cleared his throat, nervously scratching his neck. "Hum, ahem. A baby is a blessing from the Sun, prince. A ray of light made flesh."

Kadaman was not quite sure what that was supposed to mean.

The palace, usually so busy, lay covered by a fog of quietude. It was cold in the empty corridors. Kadaman shivered, but the anticipation of seeing his newborn brother burned inside him, keeping him warm like a fire on a winter night.

He hummed a song to himself, wishing his tutor would walk faster. _Shine bright, shine bright, my little child._ A baby brother! It was so exciting, he felt like he should be skipping, running, dancing through the hallways. But that was - what was the word his father used? - unbefitting of his status. So he walked, keeping pace with his tutor, his head held high.

The hallways were endless, a giant underground structure through which they moved at a painfully laggard pace. By now Kadaman knew how to get to his parents' bedroom and how to get outside. Had he been alone, he would already have arrived there. Only he was not allowed to navigate by himself yet, not until he knew the entire system by heart.

Finally they arrived at Jiran and Mirida's bedroom. Kadaman reached for the handle, just within his range, and pulled the door open.

Mirida was lying in bed, propped up against several pillows, cradling the baby. Jiran sat next to her with his arm around her shoulders. For a brief moment Kadaman felt jealous of his brother for getting all the attention. Then Mirida saw him and beckoned him to come closer.

The baby looked nothing like a ray of light. He was bundled up in a red and blue swaddle cloth with small yellow suns embroidered onto it, probably Mirida's own work. He stared at Kadaman without blinking, as if he was trying to measure him. Kadaman smiled shyly, not sure how he was expected to behave.

At least Mirida seemed pleased by that. "Would you like to hold him?" she asked.

Before he had decided whether he dared to, Jiran moved to the side, making room between him and Mirida. Still a bit hesitantly, Kadaman clambered onto the large bed on which even four parents and their children would easily fit. "Can I really?"

"Of course. He is your brother." Mirida handed the baby to Jiran, who helped position Kadaman to hold him correctly. One hand behind his head, because babies could not hold up their own head yet, and the other under his back and bottom. When he was satisfied that Kadaman would not accidentally drop or harm the baby, he let go.

And Kadaman held his little brother in his arms.

He was very warm. Maybe there was something of the Sun's blessing about him after all. Again he looked at Kadaman with big, brown eyes. Then he yawned and closed them. Kadaman glanced up at his father, who smiled in approval.

"Is he asleep?" Kadaman whispered so that he would not wake him up. Jiran nodded.

He could not quite pinpoint what it was like to hold a baby. It felt peaceful above anything else. Kadaman knew, with a clarity so strong it was almost blinding, he loved the baby no matter what. His very own baby brother. They would grow up together, be best friends forever. Theirs would be the happiest family in the Sundom. In the entire world, even! And if it was necessary, Kadaman would protect his brother from everything that might threaten him, because that was what older siblings do.

He looked down on the sleeping baby's face and remembered he needed to ask one more question. "What is his name?"

"Avad," said Jiran. "Your brother's name is Avad."

 

***

 

Since his days were filled with lessons from both Jiran and his tutor, Kadaman barely found the time to spend with his brother. They had only a few hours a day, very early in the morning and after dinner. Perhaps that was why he learned so quickly to treasure every moment of it.

They played with dolls and figures cut from wood or forged from metal. Sometimes Kadaman read to Avad from the history books he had to study. If they had trouble falling asleep or just did not want to be alone, they held a secret sleepover.

When Avad came to his room in the middle of one night, Kadaman did not send him back to bed. He merely opened the door a little further. Being tired after a long day of lessons, he lay down beside his little brother and tried to go back to sleep.

He had assumed this was just another slumber party. But Avad, wide awake, stared at the ceiling and asked, "What happens when people die?"

"They pass into the Sun's embrace," Kadaman recited, as he had been taught to say by his tutor. He did not know what it meant, but it sounded comforting. Like a warm hug.

For a short while it was silent. Just when Kadaman was starting to drift off, Avad raised a second question. "And what happens if... if mother or father dies? Or you?"

There was something else behind this, Kadaman realised even though his mind was fogged over with drowsiness. A fear that lay deeper than a casual concern had driven Avad to seek comfort from him. He could not remember whether he had ever woken up afraid of losing everyone he knew. He tried to imagine how it might feel, what it would be like to suddenly be all alone.

It was impossible. His entire life was to be spent in preparation of his father's death, to succeed him as the fourteenth Sun-King. While the idea of his parents no longer being there grieved him, it did not incite fear. By all the expectations placed on him, the political manoeuvrings, the societal backlashes, he felt daunted at times, but he had long resigned himself to his fate. The prospect had never frightened him.

How was he supposed to console Avad if he had no idea what he was feeling?

He got up, for an indivisible moment a bit annoyed because he really just wanted to get some sleep. From a chest he retrieved his warm winter clothes that Avad liked because they were so big and comfortable, and placed them on top of him. Avad was still learning how to properly dress himself, but he managed to get his head through the big hole and one of his arms in a sleeve before he gave up.

Kadaman sat back down on his bed. "That will not happen for a very long time," he finally answered as he got back under the sheets, making sure Avad was tucked in as well. "And even when it does, I will still be there. I will look after you."

The only future his childish mind could grasp was the one he was always preparing for. When he grew up, in time, he would be Sun-King. There were no other options. He did not yet know that in life, nothing was certain.

Avad blinked a few times, yawned, then asked, "So I won't be alone?"

"You will not be alone," Kadaman repeated. He had no reason to suspect otherwise. Indeed nobody could have foreseen, at that point, what fate would bring them.

They both fell asleep quickly after that. They never reconsidered, never even conceived of the possibility that one day the other might not be there. As far as they knew they had nothing to worry about.

 

***

 

The days turned to years. Although their grandfather, Sun-King Hivas, died in his sleep on an early summer night and was succeeded by his only son Jiran, nothing ever seemed to change for Kadaman and Avad.

During their free hours they explored the palace, peeking around corners to check for imaginary enemies before turning. They sparred with wooden swords and spears or pretended to fight an entire hostile force together. Kadaman was of course stronger and more experienced, being four years Avad's elder, but other than that they were equals in their fantasy world.

Until their tutor found out. And, thinking it was unbefitting, told Jiran.

The only recently crowned Sun-King summoned both his sons at once to his Solarium. They did not know why, they had no reason to suspect they had done anything wrong.

He looked at both of them in turn before stating, "Kadaman, I had expected better of you."

Kadaman had been taught to always be solemn and understanding. Especially now that he had somehow disappointed his father, he needed to appease him by responding in the proper way. "I am sorry, father. I did not mean to wrong you." He paused briefly, for the effect. "Nor am I aware that I have."

"That is undoubtedly true," Jiran agreed. His voice turning sterner, he continued, "Surely you know that the radiant Sun casts its benevolent light only on its favoured representatives. Just as their luminance outshines that of the uninitiated, so that they may never interact as equals, so too should your position restrain you from associating with those who are beneath you."

Beneath you. Those final words seemed to echo against the palace walls and towers. "I understand," Kadaman said quietly, relieved that his only punishment was to be reminded of his supposed position but dejected precisely because of that admonition. Nothing of that had ever mattered between his brother and him. To have that ripped away from them hurt, the ache of childhood innocence now lost.

He felt Avad tug on his sleeve, but did not dare look away from his father. Jiran's eyes flashed from one to the other. "You may go," he dismissed them, turning his attention back to the papers in front of him.

Taking Avad's hand, Kadaman left, dragging him along to his room. He did not stop until they were there and the door was closed behind them. Only then did he pause to see what he had already suspected.

His brother was in tears. "Why is father angry with us?" he sniffed, rubbing his eyes with his free hand.

"He was not angry," Kadaman assured him despite knowing better. "Not with you anyway. It was my mistake."

"What was?" Avad cried. "I don't understand!"

Kadaman knelt before his brother so that their eyes were at the same height. "Listen, Avad. What father meant was..." He hesitated. Was there any right way to say this? "Do you remember that father became Sun-King when grandfather passed away?"

"Yes, of course," Avad answered indignantly, but he had calmed down a little and was no longer crying.

"Alright. What father meant was..." He broke off, began anew. "Well, if the Sun-King dies, generally his eldest son becomes king after him. Father wants me to be more serious and not play so often."

Avad frowned, piecing the puzzle together in his head. "So that's you, right? You will be Sun-King so you should study a lot?" For a while he was silent, then he shrugged and said, "Okay."

"Okay?" Kadaman asked, not quite believing it had been this easy.

"Okay," Avad repeated. "It doesn't matter, does it? It doesn't change anything?"

Standing up and turning around, Kadaman told his brother the first of many lies to protect him. A nauseous swirl formed in his stomach. Lies were necessary sometimes, so he had been taught. The truth would be much more painful for both, and worse, it might shatter the bond between them. It was better, easier, to minimise the suffering. Still Kadaman felt like the worst brother ever.

"It does not change anything."


	2. Sunrise

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Second chapter of Of the Dawn's Rising.
> 
> Up until now, Kadaman's childhood has been relatively uneventful, and mostly happy. Sadly, that is about to change.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hate writing Jiran's dialogue.  
> I really do. I literally spent hours on it.   
> There's too much Jiran in this fic imo, but he needed to be in there regardless of how I felt about it (spoiler: I hate him). It really made me wonder how such an a-hole could possibly have such sweet kids. Must be Mirida's genes.   
> Oh, also, my chapters are not all of the same length. I probably should have said that before but eh, now you know.

If an event was shocking or traumatising enough, the person involved would always remember its exact details.

It was not the explosion in itself, however, but what followed after. Kadaman was eleven years old, alone in his working room, going over the court's incomes and expenses. Not a particularly exciting task, but one that needed to be done nonetheless. Although he tried to concentrate, his gaze was continually drawn towards the window in front of him, away from the papers on his desk.

He was watching the sky when it happened. First there was a noise unlike anything he had ever heard before. It shook the ground, its echoes reverberated off the stones. Then an enormous cloud rose up behind the cliffs in the north. Kadaman rose, half expecting the palace tower to come crashing down on him. Was the world ending? Had the twilight time come upon them? Unsure of what to do, and because it could not hurt anyway, he whispered a prayer.

He had barely finished when Avad ran into the room, out of breath, wide-eyed and obviously panicking. "Kadaman? What was that?"

So Avad was not hurt, at least not yet. Kadaman pushed back the ice-cold fear gripping his heart, forced his own breaths to slow. "I do not know." His brother needed him to be strong. "Are you alright?"

"I think so," Avad said bravely even though the tremble in his voice betrayed him, "and you?"

"I think so too. Come," Kadaman held out his hand and Avad took it, "let us go see what happened." If the palace was to collapse from the shock, they were safer outside. Surely Jiran would understand why Kadaman had abandoned his work just this once.

This section of the palace was built on top of the rock instead of carved inside it. Still there were few windows. They were completely unprepared for the view outside. The sky had turned an ominous, blood-red hue. Its dull light fell on a single silhouette gazing north. It seemed to be a figure of doom, a harbinger of grief. Without a moment's hesitation Kadaman stepped between it and Avad.

Then the person turned around and they saw it was only Mirida. They rushed towards her, feeling a little safer knowing she was there with them.

"Oh, thank the Sun," she exclaimed in relief, throwing her arms around them. "Do not be afraid, everything is going to be alright."

For Mirida too, Kadaman realised, it was easier to lie than to cause more pain by telling the truth. The world could still be falling apart for all they knew. Still he was glad for her thoughtfulness and warm embrace. That was all anyone could hope to offer when nothing was certain and everything seemed wrong. Maybe it was all they needed.

Jiran also entered the Solarium, in the midst of a conversation with two of his advisors. As soon as he saw Mirida and his children he dismissed them with a wave of his hand and came to stand beside his family. Mirida let go of her children for a brief moment to hug him and whisper a few words. Jiran kissed her on the cheek and she laughed at him before again devoting her attention to her sons.

Kadaman looked up at his father and saw genuine fear in his eyes. It had never occurred to him that he, the Sun-King, could feel afraid. He wanted to reassure him, but could not think of anything. He had no idea what was happening either, and honestly the fact that his father was terrified of this had shocked him more than the event itself.

Then Jiran spoke. His voice was dark like the clouds that obscured the Sun, and the same dark despair lay written on his face. "Oh great Sun," he cried, "what have we done to displease you? To bring the end upon ourselves? For what shameful offence, what hubristic statement, has the time of grave punishment arrived?" Kadaman shivered despite it being a warm morning in late summer.

But no punishment followed. The hours turned into days and passed. The sky returned to its usual blue. The world did not end. Nothing seemed to have changed. Still Kadaman could not shake the feeling that something ominous had happened, something terrible, and that perhaps worse was yet to come.

He was not wrong.

***

 

It must have been past midnight. Kadaman sat at his desk by the light of a single candle, unable to sleep. On the piece of parchment before him were a hundred small drawings of the same symbol. A stylised sun, the emblem of the court.

He had liked it, had been proud at the thought that he would wear it one day, as Sun-King. But that was before today's sacrifices.

A bandit, a rapist, and a child murderess. It was beyond doubt that they had deserved death. Even they themselves had not contested their sentence. They had not begged for their release, or for forgiveness. All they had asked was for it to be quick.

Kadaman remembered nothing of them save their pleas for mercy and the sun symbol. He knew that in the end they had been cut and left to bleed out, because he had copied a letter order to the executioners the day before. But he could not recall seeing any of that. Just the image of the Sun Court branded on their exposed chests. Blackened skin, red around the edges, and high-pitched wails of agony.

Not for the first time that night he saw teardrops fall down onto his parchment, like blood seeping out of an open wound, watering down the ink and causing the suns to fade.

There was nobody he could go to for consolation. His father would call him weak if he ever saw those tears. Mirida would not, but there was no way to get to her without Jiran noticing. The only other person Kadaman would want to speak to was Avad. But he was asleep, and anyway he should remain unaware of the horrors of the grown-up world a little longer.

His eyes hurt from the lack of sleep and light, and from crying. Perhaps he was fortunate he did not remember more, if this one detail already caused such distress. Then again, how could it be right to just forget, when three people - criminals, but still people - had suffered so much?

They had deserved to die, but not to be branded and tortured. The appropriate sentence according to the law books he had studied was either corporal punishment or death, never both. It was difficult to believe that the usually benevolent Sun had demanded such cruelty without an apparent reason. Unless there had been a mistake. In that case it would all have been for nothing.

_ No _ , he protested inwardly,  _ it cannot be. There has to be an explanation. I am simply deluded by my grief. _ How could one child possibly know better than the entire temple? He rubbed his sore eyes.

Again, as if his hand was being forced, he drew a symbol. He could feel the searing pain on his own chest. His head rang with the screams, he almost cried out as well. Was this his punishment for not believing, for doubting the Sun's judgement? He gritted his teeth and remained quiet, enduring it in silence.

***

 

Kadaman was plagued by nightmares for months afterwards. Little more than half a year later he was again tasked to send letter orders, but with different contents. This time the armies were to take captives, as many as possible, and bring them back to Meridian for sacrifice.

To the north, on the frosty plains, the Oseram tinkers. To the south, beyond the Jewel, the colourful Utaru. To the northeast, on glaciers of ice, the mysterious Banuk. And to the east, enclosed by the mountains' embrace, the fierce Nora. They would not go to the Forbidden West beyond Sunfall, although Kadaman would have preferred their disappearance over ever having to witness a sacrifice again.

Over and over again he copied the model letter, only changing names and functions which he took from another list. He wrote the same formulas time and again. Jiran would sign them at the end of the day. How personal, how genuine were the blessings and well-wishes Kadaman was thoughtlessly copying?

So long as they succeeded in the task he had given them, did his father care that many soldiers never made it back to their families? Did he mourn them? Was he ever tormented by guilt, lying awake in the middle of the night?

As he was instructing the addressees to prioritise the taking of captives over their personal safety, Kadaman at least was painfully aware of what he was asking of them. Officially the orders were his father's, but if he was the one writing them down, in how far was he responsible for their inevitable deaths? And those of the captives, who would die far away from their homes, whose fault were they?

His thoughts wandered to an event from only a few days ago. He had been alone in the Solarium, rereading a glyph on the early Sun-Kings. Curled up between the cushions he had been almost invisible, although he had not known this at the time. He was completely immersed in the life and deeds of Araman.

Suddenly he heard a door slamming shut, and what sounded like his parents arguing. First Jiran, calm as the Sun-King should always sound, "It is the will of the Sun." And then Mirida's voice, high-pitched, "It is cruel and inhumane!"

It could only refer to the new sacrifices that Jiran had begun preparations for. Mirida did not agree. She detested the sight of even a little drop of blood, the slightest hint that an animal or person was in pain. She had refused to be present at the sacrifice half a year ago, now she was looking to prevent another one.

Kadaman should have made his presence known to them. Eavesdropping was wrong, if he was discovered he would undoubtedly be punished. But that was not why he shrank deeper into the cushions. Deep down he secretly agreed with Mirida. Jiran might notice, might read it on his face. Besides that, some part of him wished to know more, especially if he was not supposed to hear it.

The next few sentences were spoken more quietly, until Mirida stated, "You used to be more kind."

"The light that gives warmth may also-" Jiran began, but Mirida did not let him finish.

"I am not talking to the Sun, I'm talking to you!"

Kadaman suppressed a shocked gasp. To almost deny the authority of the Sun-King, to imply that he was not above common flaws and errors... Mirida's frustration was bordering on blasphemy. And yet she was right.

Kadaman was destined to be Sun-King after his father's death, simply by being born earlier than Avad. But that did not make him better. He had lied to his brother, knowing full well that it was wrong to do so. He had made accidental and deliberate mistakes just like anyone else. Even now he was listening in on a conversation not meant for his ears.

A sharp sound startled him from his thoughts, causing him to look up from his glyph abruptly. Mirida had backed away from Jiran, her left hand on the reddening cheek where he had struck her. Jiran spoke again, in a stern voice too low for Kadaman to hear. Fear gripped him like a hand squeezing his heart inside his breast. All he could do was sit very still and wait for the nightmare to end.

Jiran left as soon as he had finished talking. Mirida turned around. Slowly she walked towards the nearest couch, where she sat down and buried her face in her hands.

She was too upset to notice Kadaman, although he was right next to her. After a brief moment of hesitation he laid down his glyph. He was still deliberating what he should do when she looked up, meeting his eyes. He leaned against her as he began to cry. She smiled sadly, both attempting to comfort him and apologising for what he had witnessed, perhaps also for not being able to prevent another sacrifice.

That was less than a week ago. Now Kadaman had been ordered to make himself an accomplice in the killings.

His handwriting had trailed off the line, ending in little more than a scribble. Normally he would have stored the paper, to be used later for sketching. But this he could not bear to keep, to remind himself of. Instead he crumpled it and, losing control of himself for a moment, tore it in two before throwing it away. On an empty sheet he began anew.

If only every error was as easy to mend.

***

 

It was a warm day at the height of summer. Yet Kadaman could not stop shivering.

He had fallen ill two days ago, and although he was no longer bedridden the fever had not subsided. Still he had forced himself to get up and go about his usual business, both because that was expected of him and because he was tired of laying idle.

His plan was to stay inside his office and finally finish up on the inventories, maybe work on a new schedule for the guards and palace servants, tasks he was good at and that cost him little energy. He could not properly apply eyeliner with his shaking hands and he did not feel like getting dressed in the traditional, revealing clothes - it was already way too cold. Right now all he wanted was to huddle up under a blanket and finish his work for the day.

Progress was slow. His head kept swimming and he had trouble concentrating. It felt like he had been working for hours when he heard a knock on the door.

"Enter," he called. It had to be Avad. Anyone else he would have dismissed.

But when the door opened he saw his father instead, the only person he could not send away. Kadaman sat up straight, tried to appear as dignified as possible given that he was curled up in a blanket and about as pale as a corpse.

He could tell by the look in Jiran's eyes that he was failing miserably. Expecting to be scolded, he pulled the blanket closer around him, feeling himself shrink. He could not help it. On a good day he would have had the strength to remain upright, to keep up the appearance. Not today.

Jiran watched him for a moment, unflinching, then reached out. "Come with me."

Kadaman blinked in confusion but knew better than to voice his doubts, or worse, defy his father. In silence he rose. Too quickly, the world around him was spinning. In an attempt to find support, he dropped his blanket to the floor. He was too dizzy to retrieve it.

The Sun-King frowned when he saw Kadaman was still wearing his sleep clothes. But instead of scolding or admonishing him, Jiran said kindly, "Go dress yourself. I will wait here."

Kadaman hurried to do as he was told. When he returned Jiran ordered him to follow, and so he did even though with each step his head felt heavier. He did not pay attention to where they were going. It was all he could do to keep walking steadily and upright.

Then they were outside, emerging from one of the towers. The air was even warmer than inside and the sun blazed in the sky.  _ Draw strength from the light _ , Kadaman told himself, but it seemed to drain his energy instead. He was cold, and so very tired. He wanted nothing more than to return to his room.

On and on they walked, for a short while that yet lasted forever. Finally Jiran stopped and sat down on his throne, signalling Kadaman to do the same.

He had not done so since he was a child, too young to stand for hours on end, and that had been an exception. Nobody but the Sun-King should sit on that throne. Why was he allowed to now? He hesitated, but the world around him was spinning so violently that he did not really have a choice. Leaning against the wooden backrest, he closed his eyes to gather what remained of his strength.

Before he had opened them again he already felt his father's gaze on him. He almost did not dare look out of fear of seeing anger or disappointment in it. He did not think he could bear that at the moment, not now that he was already severely disappointed in himself.

"Kadaman," Jiran said, perhaps guessing his thoughts. He did not sound either angry or disappointed. "Can you guess why I brought you here?"

Whether Kadaman liked it or not, it was impossible not to admire his father. His voice was perfectly controlled, elevated but not haughty. He sat in a proud and upright position and yet his dignity seemed effortless. It was quite the contrast with the unstable, emotional mess that Kadaman felt like.

"It is a lesson," he answered, trying to at least sound confident. It was always a lesson. "Even though I am not feeling well I should be able to carry out the duties of a Sun-King... is that correct?"

Jiran smiled. He looked a lot like Avad when he did. Only he did not smile often. He was too busy, or too stressed, most of the time. "Exactly. Even when all is dark the Sun must shine. So too must we overcome our personal inconveniences to carry out our duties."

Kadaman tried. He really tried his best, gave it everything he had. After less than an hour he broke down, shivering and crying in silence. It was impossible. His head swam, everything was spinning, and worst of all the cold. The shadows were too dark. It was impossible.

It was his own fault for not shining bright enough.

"I am sorry," he sobbed, losing the final bit of his composure just after a petitioner had left. She had seen his tears, he thought, but only given him a sympathetic nod in reaction. A small blessing. "Father, I tried. I am sorry..."

Jiran signalled his guards to delay the next courtier. Then he turned to his son, still not showing any sentiment. "There is no need for that. You did well."

Seeing Kadaman's confusion he explained, "There are two halves of nature, Sun and Shadow, and to deny one is to deny the whole of things. So it is for everything, including the Sun-King and by extension his heir. However, nobody is to know or your reputation will suffer. Therefore you must not betray the shadow's hold on you, which you did not." For the first time that day he expressed his approval. "Go back to your room, Kadaman. Finish your work or rest, whichever you like. I truly am proud of what you did today."

Perhaps, Kadaman thought, if his father said so, he had done alright after all. "Can I get a hug?" he asked in a small voice, feeling like five instead of fifteen years old.

Jiran was not the kind of person that easily showed affection, let alone physically act on it. Afterwards, Kadaman remembered the feeling of his father's arms around him, protecting and comforting him when he was at his weakest, and wondered where it had all gone wrong.

***

 

The rumours had been around for a while now. Talk of a new machine, impossible to catch, that could shoot down a hunter silently, from the shadows. It roamed far away in the southern stretches of the Jewel, preying on villagers and travellers. Nobody had seen it and lived, survivors told strange tales of crying flashes of red and bodiless blue lights like eyes without a face.

Apparently five years of bloodshed had not appeased the Sun in the slightest. Instead another murderous machine had appeared, as if there were not enough horrors in the world already. And because of its presence, new sacrifices were instituted even more frequently.

The frightening rumours did not keep hunters from their jobs. Some eagerly went in search of the beast, often not returning. Others travelled in different directions or, if the Jewel could not be avoided, skirted as close to its northern edges as possible. So did Avad, under the supervision of Sunhawk Talavad Khane Padish.

Avad had hunted since he was eight, and Talavad had over twenty years of experience. It was supposed to be safe.

When Mirida summoned Kadaman, he did not expect it to have anything to do with the hunting expedition. They were not supposed to return for at least a week. However, when he arrived at her room he found Avad there, and the Sunhawk. Besides that he immediately noted Jiran's absence, and wondered why his father was not present as well.

Neither seemed wounded, still for a moment Kadaman feared for them. They would not have been here if everything had gone as usual. But before he could ask why he had been summoned, Mirida requested from Talavad, "Please repeat what you just told me."

"It's not his fault," Avad protested, glancing at Kadaman for support. He was obviously panicking. Indeed it seemed like Talavad was answering for something. "Neither of us knew!"

Mirida sighed, massaging her temples with both hands as if she was troubled. "I believe you, Avad, but I need to know exactly what happened. For my own peace of mind." As she spoke she looked at the Sunhawk. Kadaman thought he saw some kind of understanding pass between them, even if he could not guess what about.

He had never spoken to the Sunhawk, but he knew him by sight. Talavad Khane Padish was not a tall man, approximately the same height and build as Mirida. He carried himself with real authority and the confidence of a hunter. Once Kadaman had caught himself thinking that a stranger who saw him and Avad hunting together might consider them father and son, and that perhaps Avad would have been happier that way. Selfishly, it pained Kadaman to imagine what his own life would have been like if he had been an only child.

"Two days ago we left Meridian," Talavad recounted calmly, as if he was reporting on a normal mission. "Since the Derangement the Hawks have regularly patrolled the edge of the Jewel, to keep the machines away from the heartland. This official patrol was conducted one month ago, by myself. I saw nothing unusual, and no machines bigger than a Strider. It was strictly speaking unnecessary to host a patrol so soon afterwards, but it seemed good to me to do so anyway. Because the risk was exceedingly low, perhaps as low as it has ever been, I decided to invite prince Avad to come with me."

"And I said yes," Avad interrupted him, "and father gave his permission, so-" He had become better at hiding his emotions, but Kadaman still heard the distress in his voice. "So- it's not Talavad's fault."

Then why have you returned so early, Kadaman wanted to ask. Why did you go hunting in the first place, when there is a new machine rampaging around? He held his peace. It was not his place to ask those questions now.

"We left Meridian Village by its western gate, then travelled south. There was a pack of Striders there, that we chased off into the Jewel. We did not pursue them because of the recent rumours. Instead we continued eastward, encountering nothing but a few Watchers for an entire day. That night we rested near a campsite, after carefully having scouted the surroundings. The following morning we continued on, but we both felt uneasy. After about an hour we halted. On the forest floor only a few paces away from us were red lights like trip mines. We immediately fled, just in time. A machine appeared from thin air, snarling." Talavad paused briefly, then added, "I would have faced it had I been alone, perhaps even now we could have brought it down if we had tried."

After another short pause, he concluded, "The machine soon lost sight of us, but I deemed it to dangerous too continue. We returned to Meridian as quickly as possible."

He spoke so lightheartedly about what sounded like a terrifying adventure. What would it feel like? To be a hunter, to see the mysterious, but also murderous new machine up close. To know that every hunt, every day, could be your last. Was freedom worth that risk? Avad certainly seemed to think so.

Mirida rose gracefully, placing one hand on the Sunhawk's shoulder. "Thank you, Talavad. Your actions, even under unforeseen circumstances, are commendable."

"I merely did what I thought was right," said Talavad with a slight smile, "as you do."

They treated each other like old friends, Kadaman realised to his surprise. Instead of being intimidated by her status, Talavad seemed comfortable in her presence. Mirida either did not know or did not care that she was not supposed to touch him, since he did not belong to her family.

Or was she perhaps related to the Sunhawk? She was a Khane, but Kadaman did not know to what family she had belonged before her marriage to Jiran. To prevent a conflict of loyalties, any noble woman marrying into the royal line was required to cut all ties with her previous relatives and keep her ancestry a secret. The Sun-King's family had to be the epitome of fidelity and integrity. Which was why it was so strange that Jiran was not present.

Lost in thought, Kadaman was startled when Mirida spoke again. "However, I am afraid I can no longer allow my son to hunt, with these killing machines freely roaming the lands."

"But mother," Avad began to protest, then stopped, finding no words to convey his feelings. Hunting had been his escape from reality, from a world of countless duties and endless cruelties.

Talavad nodded gravely. "I understand. My primary concern has always been Avad's safety, and in light of the recent events I would caution anyone against venturing outside of Meridian."

Looking from one to the other, Avad seemed close to despair. "Am I never to hunt again?" he asked, already half admitting defeat. He seemed to accept that it was a lost cause anyway.

He was so upset that Kadaman had to console him somehow. "Perhaps not," he said, to give him hope again and also because he genuinely believed it. "Perhaps later, when it is again safe to do so."

"Hunting is never safe," Avad muttered, but just maybe the prospect had cheered him up a little.

Bowing deeply, Talavad assured them, "The Lodge is doing everything in its power to keep the machines under control." It sounded believable, but Kadaman knew that the machines had never been 'under control', and even less so since the beginning of the Derangement. Never had they let hunters or anyone else dictate their behaviour. Whether fighting or fleeing, the machines acted of their own accord, unpredictably.

After paying his respects to each of them, Talavad left. Mirida returned to her chair, rested her head on her hands as if the conversation had cost her all her energy.

She seemed to have forgotten that Kadaman and Avad were still there. They were silent, not wanting to disturb her. Seeing that Avad was still in need of his support, Kadaman gently patted him on the back.

Eventually Mirida looked up and said, "I am sorry. I did the best I could. You may go now."

They left her, but instead of going back to his work Kadaman stayed with Avad for a while, listening to his hunting tales. It was the least he could do.

Only an hour or so later, once he was alone again in his room, Kadaman noticed the subtle yet emphatic "I am", "I did", "I could". Not only had his father not been present, Mirida had acted on her own account, without consulting or informing him. Kadaman long pondered the meaning and consequences of the event.

Mirida had wilfully ignored her husband, the Sun-King, although he would not have blamed Avad for anything. Now Jiran would be furious at her if he found out. Why had she taken that risk?

And why had she brought Kadaman into this? She must have known that he would not tell his father, or all her secrecy would have been for nothing. There was no reason for her to risk everything if there was no gain at all. Even if she needed him to understand why Avad was not to go hunting anymore, she could have just told him later. Surely she did not need Kadaman to help her protect herself or Avad.

Unless this was not about them.

The realisation hit as suddenly as a desert gale. Mirida was protecting Talavad. From Jiran. That must mean that she believed he was in some sort of danger, should Jiran find out. It also confirmed Kadaman's theory that Mirida and the Sunhawk were close, perhaps family.

Jiran would want Kadaman to tell him about this. He would be proud, praise him for it for months to come. But Kadaman had long ago decided that his purpose in life was not just to do what his father desired from him. He had his own motives. He would not put Talavad at risk, both because they might be related and because Avad cared about him. Mostly he trusted that Mirida had their best interests at heart, and would never harm them or expose them to danger. Kadaman would keep her secret.

***

 

One early morning in winter, Kadaman woke to a desperate cry and running footsteps in the hallway. It seemed like another nightmare at first, his mind playing the most horrifying scenes he had witnessed back at him, only he knew at once that he was not sleeping.

Before he had even gotten out of bed there was another wail of grief. This time he recognised his father's voice. Fear gripped his heart, for himself, for Avad, and for his parents. As quickly as possible he dressed himself. He wished he had a sword, but only the Sun-King and his personal guards were allowed to carry weapons inside the palace.

A servant ran past as he left his room, locking the door behind him. Kadaman ordered him to stay and tell him what had happened.

The man stopped, gasping for air. "Oh prince, it's terrible, an event out of the darkest twilight," he babbled, "it's really terrible, by the Sun, prince, it's such a horror."

"Calm yourself." Kadaman strained to have his own voice remain steady even though the panic clawed at him as well. "Tell me, what is so terrible?"

The servant took a deep breath and wiped his forehead with the back of his hand. "It's your mother, prince. She- she- she's gone... into the Sun's embrace..."

There was a darkness looming behind Kadaman, threatening to swallow him up. It was impossible. She could not be. "What- how?" he stammered. "And my father?"

"He's with her," the man said, "in their bedroom. Sun have mercy, she must have passed away in her sleep..."

Kadaman did not wait until he had finished. He ran to his parents' room, hesitated for the briefest moment before entering. He knew he did not want to see it, but he had to.

He had seen many faces of death before, in the Sun Ring. Each was grievous in its own right, but this was different. Mirida looked peaceful. She could almost have been asleep, only her eyes were open and void of life. Kadaman tried to picture her as he had seen her many times before, at her loom or sorting yarn, but failed.

Kneeling on the ground next to her was Jiran. It was the first and only time that Kadaman saw his father cry.

Jiran did not seem to notice his son. "Sun forgive me," he whispered again and again, his implorations muffled by the sheets he held against his face, "Mirida, my love, forgive me."

Uncertain what to say or do, Kadaman remained where he stood, not making a sound, until he heard Avad's voice in the hallway. "Why won't anyone tell me what happened? Where's Kadaman?"

Jiran did not appear to have heard. Turning around and leaving the room, Kadaman only had time to decide on one thing. Avad must not see Mirida's body. The sight of a dead family member would haunt him forever.

Two palace guards were blocking the way at about two steps from the door. They must have arrived when Kadaman was already inside. He was only just able to slip out behind their backs and close the door before Avad saw him. "Kadaman! What in the Sun's name-"

"I need you to trust me," Kadaman told him. "And I need you to come with me." They had to leave, to get as far away as possible, lest the darkness overtook them as well.

Thankfully, Avad obeyed. Still he remained on edge, wide-eyed like an animal ready to bolt. Kadaman led him away from their parents' room, not caring in which direction he went as long as it was away from there. Only after a while he realised that he was bringing them to Mirida's room, seeking comfort from her even though she could no longer give any.

He must have slowed down for a moment or otherwise faltered. Avad stopped abruptly and asked, "Will you tell me what happened now? Are we in danger?"

Focused purely on his own grief Kadaman had not noticed that his brother was still panicking. He felt a sting of guilt. It was up to him now to look after Avad, and he was already failing.

"No, no danger," he answered slowly, hesitatingly. "Only... Avad, you have to be strong now. Can you- can you do that for me?"

He knew he was asking a lot. Avad was little more than a child. Still, he nodded silently, perhaps not trusting himself to speak.

"Mother passed away." Three words, so simple and yet so difficult. Kadaman's voice broke at the final word, in an attempt to hold back tears he bit his lip so hard that he thought he tasted blood.  _ Do not cry _ , he admonished himself sternly.  _ Your brother needs you. You do not get to cry _ .

At first Avad did not reply or move, or show any signs that he had heard it at all. Then, rather suddenly, he turned around. "I want to see-"

"No!" Kadaman cut him off, physically blocking the way in the narrow corridor just in time. "No, you cannot-"

"Let me through!" his brother cried, trying to shove him aside. Instead of blocking his attempt Kadaman held him in a hug. Avad did not push him away as he had feared for a moment. Quivering with sobs he huddled closer, holding on to Kadaman as if he was afraid he would lose him too.

That thought was more than Kadaman could bear at the moment. He failed to hold back his tears, suddenly realising that he too was scared. In the dark hallway they seemed engulfed by shadows. All that kept them at bay was Avad's presence, from which he drew at least a little comfort.

After what seemed like an eternity Avad, still a bit shakily, voiced what Kadaman was also thinking. "You won't leave me alone, will you? Because- because you mustn't..."

"I will always be with you," Kadaman promised, although he knew its fulfilment was beyond his keeping.

It turned out to be another lie.


	3. Noon

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Noon. The third chapter and, as you can guess, the middle chapter. The highlight. But although noon is the middle of the day, the high point, once it's past it is only going to get darker.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I loved writing this chapter. Kadaman just interacting with his friends, with a not-quite-girlfriend, with his new stepmother. He almost gets to be himself for once. He gets to laugh, to make jokes, and not have to worry about too many things for a while.  
> Of course we know it's not going to last. But let's just let him be happy while he can.

It was a beautiful day. The summer sun blazed high overhead in a cloudless sky. Gazing up at it, eyes squeezed into nothing but tiny splits, feeling the warmth on his face, Kadaman felt like there would be no shadows ever again. This was how he imagined the Sun's embrace. To be held, warmly, safely, blissfully. If only the sun never set and summer never ended.

They had arrived in Sunfall only one day ago. Soon enough summer would be over, though. They would return to Meridian, to another year filled with days exactly the same as the previous ones, the only distraction being yet another brutal sacrifice.

Kadaman would give almost anything to be a child again, too young to understand the horrors of the world, building castles from the coarse sand. Had he been alone, he would have scooped up a handful of sand and slowly let it run between his fingers. Like the sand everything seemed to slip away sometimes, eaten up by the voices of the darkness. The world had been filled with shadows since Mirida's death, that ranged from merely being present at his side to attacking him at unawares, turning the world into a dim, monochrome haze of melancholy.

When someone spoke behind him, for an indivisible moment he took it to be one of those voices. "Keep your defences up. If I wanted, you would be bleeding out into the sand now."

Kadaman's heart almost stopped of its own accord, but at the same time he found himself strangely accepting of his fate. It was a strange form of justice, that one who had facilitated the sacrifices was to die in the same Sun Ring. Perhaps it was what he deserved.

He turned around. Despite the warmth he felt a chill, as always when he saw Helis, captain of his father's guard. Although his duty was to protect them, Kadaman had disliked him, even slightly feared him, from their very first meeting. He might have felt guilty for that if Helis had been literally anyone else.

"Good day to you as well," he managed to reply. What better way to prepare a lesser fighter for combat than by reminding them how easily you could kill them if you wanted?

Every day, for two hours in the afternoon, the kestrels held practice fights in the Sun Ring. During their summer stays at Sunfall Kadaman trained with them. He had done so since he was ten, when his father had decreed the institution of the new contingent. There was something about the rigid logic of desert sun, of weathering the storm or being swept away, that appealed to him. One's birth, background, or beliefs were irrelevant. Nothing mattered except for skill and perseverance. It was simple and straightforward, especially compared to the bloodstained mess that Meridian was slowly becoming, and that gave him a sense of safety.

In small groups of two or three the other kestrels entered the ring until all seventeen were present. Kadaman knew most of them by name, and even though as the Sun-King's heir he was not allowed to have friends, he considered them as such.

One of the few kestrels close to him in age was Gavarid, two years older yet much shorter than he, born in Meridian Village to a fisherman and a maid. Had they not happened to train together they would never have met.

Gavarid bowed his head respectfully, coming to stand beside him. Kadaman returned the gesture. It had been eight months since they had last seen each other.

"How have you been?" Kadaman asked. It usually took a while for Gavarid to overcome his awkwardness at being friends with the Sun-King's heir.

Instead of the formal reply that Kadaman had expected, Gavarid all but bounced with excitement. "Awesome!" He smoothed his crest, a few loose feathers landing on the ground around them. "Guess what?"

Kadaman grinned, both because he was amused and because it masked his surprise. "You grew taller over the winter?" he teased.

That earned him a playful punch to the arm. "Hey, stuff it. Try again."

"You beat Helis in a fight?" Kadaman guessed, keeping his voice low so that Helis would not overhear. Anyway he was too busy lecturing someone who had fastened his chest armour the wrong way.

"I wish," Gavarid sighed wistfully, "but no. Final chance."

A new kestrel, someone Kadaman had not met, joined their conversation as he made his final guess. "You... figured out the glyphs?" He suspected that whatever Gavarid was so excited about had something to do with the newcomer. If he remembered correctly...

The new kestrel bent over with laughter, distracting Kadaman from his thoughts. "By the Sun, you've been found out, brother!"

So he had been right.

"Shut up, both of you," Gavarid muttered, not actually offended. He truly did not care about the glyphs or about reading. "Anyway, meet the little baby brother."

"Linan." He held out his hand a tad shyly. "Nice to meet you." It seemed to be his first time here.

They shook hands. "Likewise," said Kadaman. He wondered whether they had travelled together without knowing. But since Helis was ordering everyone to begin the first round of fights, they could not continue their conversation.

"We should speak more afterwards," Kadaman quickly offered, and both nodded.

Linan had, understandably, claimed Gavarid as his opponent. Kadaman went in search of a different sparring partner, taking care to avoid Helis' eyes. Even on the best days he did not wish to fight against him, and especially not after their conversation earlier. Finally he found one in a man at least twenty years older than he, whom he had known since he began training here. Not an easy match, but a fair one, and an opponent who was not intent on hurting others. Unlike someone else he could name.

"So summer's well and truly begun," stated Palavis, as always sounding perpetually chagrined but actually really friendly. It was just his voice. "We were just starting to miss Your Radiance."

"Funny." Kadaman unsheathed his sword and raised it, a traditional sign of respect for one's opponent. "I was just starting to miss hearing my own name."

Palavis smiled broadly, lifting his own sword in return. "Kadaman, then. Sun favour your blade."

"And yours, Palavis."

They circled each other for a while before Kadaman made the first move. Swords clinked together. A brief pause, having tested the other's initial defence, and the fight continued. Kadaman was soon out of breath, sweat drops forming on his face. It had been too long. Back home in Meridian he did not train as frequently as he should. He was often too busy, and sometimes he lacked the energy or motivation.

Despite his lack of practice, neither of them had managed to disarm the other when Helis again called out. "Change opponents!"

"Not much longer and you might have had me," Palavis admitted, panting. "Glad you're back, kid."

To be honest, Kadaman felt exactly the same. Palavis, a trained kestrel, was much more likely to win, though. Perhaps he was just being polite.

Taking off his helmet and again tilting back his head to look up at the sky, Kadaman smiled. "It is good to be back." He meant every word of it.

If he was given the choice, he might wish to remain in Sunfall forever, one soldier among others. Perhaps he was taking after his late grandfather Hivas, whom he had barely known. Unless it was the anonymity he desired, the possibility to fade into a senseless oblivion.

He quickly put his helmet back on as another kestrel approached. Uthiliv, also close to Kadaman's age, slapped him on the shoulder in greeting. "Hey! Not trying to avoid me, are you?"

"Of course I want to avoid you," Kadaman replied jokingly, "after you kicked me into the sand last year."

"Was an accident," Uthiliv muttered without much conviction behind it. Seeing Kadaman frown, he added, "Well, sort of."

They raised their swords to each other. "Sun favour your blade."

This time Kadaman hardly needed to observe. He knew Uthiliv, knew how he had ended up on the ground last time they had fought. Not by accident or skill, Kadaman was the better fighter. It was because of a stupid trick. One he too had now mastered.

When Uthiliv stepped forward and swung his sword, instead of blocking him, Kadaman sidestepped. The blow missed him completely and Uthiliv lost his balance for just a single heartbeat. Kadaman was now behind him. As Uthiliv tried turning around to meet him, Kadaman tripped him.

Not at all a sore loser, Uthiliv grinned broadly from where he lay sprawling in the sand. He had long accepted that he was not the best fighter of the group. "Nice one. I admit defeat."

He scrambled to his feet and they resumed their fight until Helis, again, ordered them to change opponents.

The short fights continued for half an hour. Kadaman duelled with Gavarid, Linan, and many others. After that they gathered in the centre of the ring, forming a circle. Helis paced around, glancing at each of them in turn. Like a predator, Kadaman thought, seeking out the weakest prey.

His gaze soon came to rest on Linan, the least experienced of those present. "Watch," he whispered to the rest, voice low and menacing, "and learn."

Kadaman saw Linan quiver, and even worse, Helis all but feeding off his panic. Gavarid's eyes filled with fear, but he was powerless to help his brother. Suddenly Kadaman imagined how he would feel if Avad was in Linan's place. On an impulse he stepped forward.

All eyes were on him. He drew a slow breath, forced his racing heart to slow. "Please," he said, "it has been too long since our last fight."

Helis smiled far too sweetly. "So it has."

Afterwards, all Kadaman remembered was a desperate haze of not giving up, keeping on fighting. Helis had been right. He could easily have slain Kadaman at any given moment, or at least disabled him by drawing blood or by forcing him to the ground. Either would be an appropriate ending to the duel, but he was not granted an easy way out. Instead it felt as if Helis was toying with him, dragging it out purely to torment him. Was he hoping Kadaman would give up? Then he would not give him that satisfaction.

Memories clouded in on him of sacrifices in the Sun-Ring in Meridian, of Helis cutting down unarmed captives. Only now it was Kadaman in the ring, armed but as unskilled as a child in comparison. One mistake in his defence would mean the end.

He was unable to recall how long the fight had lasted. At its end he lay flat on his back, the tip of Helis' sword hovering just above his throat. Stay still, Kadaman sternly admonished himself, stay still or he will have conquered you.

An eternity seemed to have passed before Helis drew back his blade. "You lost," said he quietly. He sounded almost disappointed that Kadaman had not shown fear.

Kadaman returned to the others, every muscle in his body aching and protesting. Both Linan and Gavarid shot him a grateful look as he took his place beside them, certain they had been saved. However their gratitude turned to despair less than a heartbeat later, when Helis summoned Linan into the ring.

***

 

The sun was setting, yet it was as bright as day. Candles, lanterns and lampions stood on every surface, hung from every balcony. It was the winter solstice festival, the shortest day. The night during which Meridian bathed in light, anticipating the return of the Sun.

This was Kadaman's favourite time of the year. Not even the ice-cold wind and the freezing hail could ruin it for him.

The palace was the most radiant place of all. Since Mirida's death three years ago, Kadaman and Avad had been in charge of the light plan. They considered it their annual tribute to her. All day, starting an hour before dawn, they had supervised the servants as they decorated, each on one side of the palace. Now everything was finished exactly in time, and the Khanes and high nobles would arrive once the sun had fully set.

They stood just inside the palace gates, their backs towards the city, watching the lights sway in the wind. "The blue lampions on my side don't line up," Avad observed with a frown. "I don't like it."

"I do not see it," Kadaman replied, laughing softly.

Avad cast one final look at the lampions, then shrugged. "I suppose nobody else will either. But it bothers me."

They heard footsteps behind them on the bridge. There was no time for rest. Of course some of the guests had arrived early. Almost unwillingly Kadaman turned around to welcome them, as was his responsibility. One of his many responsibilities. Only now he noticed how dark the bridge and the city were in comparison to the brightly lit palace. The brilliance of the Sun-King eclipsed everything else. He briefly wondered whether that was fair.

Lost in thought, it took him a while to recognise the early guests. When he remained silent, Avad took over. "Welcome, and thank you for coming."

It was the Khane Padish family. "Thank you for the invitation," said Talavad, as was expected of him. "The palace looks beautiful. Your mother would have been proud of you."

Mirida had often told her sons that she was proud of them no matter what. Still it meant a lot to hear it from Talavad as well. Kadaman wanted to reply, to thank him perhaps, but could not find the words.

Talanah, unaware of what was going on beside her, inspected the decorations through narrowed eyes. Still a teenager who voiced every thought that occurred to her, she remarked, "The blue lights on the right don't line up."

Kadaman and Avad exchanged a quick glance. Not very subtly, Avad bit his lip to hold back his laughter.

"Well, looks like Avad did it on purpose," Brativin joked, "just to ruin your night." Talanah rolled her eyes at him.

It was easy to smile brightly at their merriment. "We hope you enjoy the festival," Kadaman finished the conversation as the next group of guests arrived behind them.

This family he did not know. They were two parents with their daughter, perhaps from one of the estates. She was around the same age as Kadaman, and kept turning her head in all directions, wide-eyed, seemingly untroubled by the weather.

She was as brilliant as a summer's day, despite it being midwinter. Her brightness seemed to radiate off her, dispelling every shadow. She was incredibly intriguing. "I love the lights," she beamed before Kadaman had found his voice. "They're so cheerful. I like it."

Her father presented the invitation - for Tufarid, Irisha and Valinah Khane Pir. Kadaman welcomed them according to protocol before focusing on the next group, but not before Valinah had thanked him kindly for his hospitality. By now the guests were lining up on the bridge, there was no more time for individual conversations. Forced smiles, freezing hands and automatic replies, again and again until all the guests were inside. At least it stopped hailing after about half an hour.

Following that, they needed to instruct and supervise the servants. Once everything had been arranged their duties were over, but they were still expected to socialise with the guests, all high-ranking nobles of the Sun-Court.

Having mingled with the far too busy crowds for what felt like hours, continuously repeating the same conversations, Kadaman needed a moment to be alone. At the bottom of the stairs, in relative darkness, he looked out towards the distant lights of Evening's Sign, surrounded by the Jewel. Even the garrison would be celebrating. Everywhere in the Sundom citizens gathered around candles and blaze lamps, spending time with their families and loved ones. It was a time of bliss, of rejoicing at the return of the Sun and the prospect of a new year.

A girl and boy ran past Kadaman, followed by an adult man, perhaps their father, calling to them, "Elida, please behave yourself!" Elida only giggled. The man stopped, heaving a sigh, and muttered to himself, "I do not know why I brought them both here," before returning to the higher balcony.

Kadaman closed his eyes, breathing in the crisp air. It helped keep him awake, at the very least. He still had a long night ahead of him, and tomorrow everything needed to be cleaned up and stored. On top of that, between all the preparations he had not finished his usual work, and his list of tasks grew longer by the day.

The sound of children laughing still drifted on the air. For a moment he wished he could run around too, carefree like Elida, without having to worry about his responsibilities. He wondered if he had been like her once, before his mother had passed away. He did not remember.

Sitting down on the cold balustrade, he took out pencil and paper and began to sketch. In the past hours he had seen many faces, old and new. Some he had forgotten the moment the conversation ended, but most stayed in his memory, as clearly as if he was still looking at them.

He became so immersed in his drawings that he did not notice Valinah until she sat down beside him. "I hope I'm not disturbing you," she said a little hesitantly.

In all honesty she was. Kadaman yearned to be alone, to not have to interact with anyone. But he could not very well say so without possibly offending her. "Not at all," he lied, and she smiled in relief. "Are you enjoying yourself?"

"Absolutely," she replied immediately. "Actually I wasn't sure what to expect. I haven't been to Meridian in years. Maybe I should make the journey more often."

"The journey from where?" Kadaman asked, already having resigned himself to her presence. He was again awed by her brilliance, although he could not show it. She was certainly beautiful, but it was her elegant, seemingly effortless cheerfulness that Kadaman admired.

Valinah turned her gaze northward. "From where I live. Beyond the Rockwreath, on a small estate near the mountains. East of the Sun Furrows Hunting Grounds." She smiled, her voice taking on a tone as if she was reciting poetry. "Out in the desert where even the mountains are grinded down by the sandstorms, where the animals and machines roam unchecked."

"Your family is brave," Kadaman remarked, "to stay there." The nonchalance of her description shocked him more than her words. Just last week there had been word from one of the estates in the Jewel, overrun by Stalkers. Thankfully most of its inhabitants had escaped safely.

He did not tell Valinah that. Surely she was aware of the dangers, and he did not wish to frighten her.

"We have a house in Meridian," she said with a shrug, "but we like it out there. It's very peaceful. And my father is a hunter."

She opened a pouch hanging from her ornate belt and took out a skein of yarn with two thin needles in it. "Do you mind? My hands have been itching since I got here."

"Of course not," Kadaman answered. By now he was not exactly surprised. He began to suspect that with Valinah, everything was possible.

She was unusually spontaneous for a lady of her birth, especially considering that she was talking to the Sun-King's heir. She did not seem daunted at all, or afraid. Kadaman wondered whether that was because she lived away from Meridian. Away from the horrors and the sacrifices of his father's reign, for which he too was to blame. Did she not know, or had she somehow sensed that Kadaman meant her no harm?

Her hands moved very quickly, the red yarn in stark contrast with her light blue dress. She kept her head bowed, focusing completely on her work. Kadaman could not guess what she was making, although he thought it resembled a body with as of yet only one thin leg.

He forced himself to look away. Reopening his sketchbook he began on a new page, drawing without paying attention to which faces he was reproducing on the paper. It was nice to sit together like this, in silence, both focused on their own project. Soon he lost every notion of time.

Until, and he truly did not know how much time had passed, white flakes began to float down on the air, landing on his sketchbook. Valinah stopped her work to first look at the sky, then at Kadaman. "It's snowing," she exclaimed. "Snow during the winter solstice festival!" She paused, seeing the drawing Kadaman had made just now, then asked, "Is that me? Were you drawing me?"

Kadaman looked at his sketches. The last one, filling almost the entire page, was indeed of Valinah. He felt his cheeks turn red. "I, uh, I suppose I was. I was not paying attention..." His voice trailed off as he realised he was only making it worse.

Valinah laughed and patted him on the shoulder before awkwardly retracting her hand, remembering who she was speaking with. "Uh, don't worry, I don't mind. Can I see?"

"Yes, of course," Kadaman replied courteously although every fibre of his being screamed no. Still a bit flustered he handed her the book.

She examined the drawing, tilting her head to one side and then the other. It took forever, or at least long enough for Kadaman to get embarrassingly nervous. What if Valinah hated the sketch? What if she turned the page and saw something ugly or terrible? At the same time he wondered why this was so terrifying whereas he did not mind Avad seeing even his worst drawings.

Finally, she beamed, "I love it."

Kadaman could not hold back his smile. Maybe he did not have to. Valinah seemed the type of spontaneous person that never hid her feelings. "Thank you." He hesitated, wanting to return the compliment but unsure how. "Are you making a doll? It looks cute."

"Aw, thank you!" Now it was Valinah's turn to blush. "It's for my nephew. He's only four and he likes red, so, well." She tucked the doll away in her pouch and gave Kadaman back his sketchbook. A sigh escaped her as she looked at the other guests on the higher balcony.

"I suppose we have been away for too long," Kadaman acknowledged almost reluctantly. He would have preferred to remain where he was, and judging from her expression, the same was true for Valinah. It was difficult to believe that at first, he had been a little annoyed with her presence.

"I suppose so," Valinah agreed, standing up. The snow had crowned her black hair with a white headdress. She listened quietly, then observed, "They're playing music."

Hours later, they stood watching the sunrise amidst many others. The snow was still steadily drifting down as the first rays of the Sun emerged from behind the mountains. A lone voice began a hymn, and soon everyone was singing. While they were distracted, Valinah took Kadaman's hand and squeezed it before quickly letting go again. It left him dazed, but also incredibly happy.

Not long afterwards the festival came to an end and the guests had to leave. Valinah lingered, pretending to examine an exquisitely crafted lantern. Her parents were waiting on the bridge, but she paid them no mind.

"I have to go back home," she sighed when Kadaman came looking for her. Even now a remnant of her brightness reverberated in the air around her. "But part of me wants to stay. For tonight to never be over."

Kadaman could think of no other reply than, "So do we all."

Valinah shrugged. "I guess." She was silent for a while. Just when Kadaman began to wonder if he had said something wrong, she spoke again. "Kadaman, I wanted to say- I wanted to thank you. I loved the party. I, uh, I loved spending time with you. And I'm going to miss you."

"I feel the same," Kadaman admitted quietly. Then he checked himself. What in the Sun's name was he thinking, expressing friendship to a woman he barely knew? But was it friendship he was expressing, or something else? Whatever the case, he could not let himself act on it, for her sake. "Be safe, Valinah. May the Sun light your path, wherever you walk."

Her eyes were shining. Perhaps to distract herself, she rummaged around in her pouch, avoiding Kadaman's gaze. "And you as well."

It was strange to have only just met someone, yet feel like you had known them for ages. "Valinah," said Kadaman, and she looked up at him. "I- I wanted you to have this. To remember." He managed to keep his hand steady as he held out a piece of paper.

Valinah accepted it. "May I look at it?" Her voice trembled just a little. Enough to betray that she, too, felt distressed.

Not trusting his voice, Kadaman nodded.

She opened the paper and saw the drawing he had made earlier, of herself.

She smiled, happy with the gift but grieved at their parting. "I will never forget," she whispered. Again she felt around in her pouch, this time finding what he was looking for. It was a very small white snowflake made out of thin yarn.

She must have made it herself, Kadaman thought just before she gave it to him. Accepting it he found that there was nothing he could say except, "Neither will I." But it was enough.

Perhaps if things had been different, if Kadaman had not been his father's son, they would have hugged. Their goodbyes were more formal now, but painful nonetheless. The possibility of this being a final farewell hung heavily over them.

They had never met again.

***

Less than a week after the royal wedding, the newly-become Queen Nasadi summoned Kadaman to her quarters. She and Jiran had met in Sunfall two summers ago, and now they were married and she lived with them in the palace in Meridian. As of yet Kadaman did not know her very well. He had only seen her during meals, and barely exchanged words with her.

Her summons annoyed him. It was a short spoken message, delivered by one of her handmaids. "Please come to my quarters." That was it. None of the usual formulas or formalities that such a message was supposed to contain. It would have been an affront even from Jiran.

He went anyway. Although his new stepmother seemed unaware of or unwilling to follow common courtesies, that did not mean that he should not either.

Nasadi occupied the room that had been his mother's. In the past it had been dominated by Mirida's loom and colourful baskets of yarn. Without it, turned into little more than a parlour, it seemed empty, monochrome, void of life and meaning.

Now there was nothing but a few chairs and a low table. It had become a generic guest room. There was nothing individual about it. Then again, Kadaman barely knew Nasadi - not that she had made any efforts. Perhaps she liked it this way, or simply had not gotten around to decorating yet.

She sat in one of the chairs, blending in so well that Kadaman might not have noticed her had he not been aware of her presence. Even for a noblewoman she was unusually quiet and unassuming. There seemed to be nothing unique about her, nothing personal. He wondered not for the first time why Jiran had desired to marry her, and why she had accepted.

"Thank you for coming," Nasadi said, fidgeting with the ring on her left hand. "I- I would have gone to you, but I am afraid I would lose my way."

"Of course," Kadaman replied, his annoyance vanishing like a shadow at noon as he heard the reason for her summons. She did not know the way in the palace, otherwise she would have... Had nobody showed her around? Was there no guard or servant assigned to her to provide assistance? He made a mental note to ensure that someone would give her the tour later. He did not care much for Nasadi, but this was simply a common kindness.

Two lines into their conversation and an awkward silence had already fallen. "So, uh, please sit down," Nasadi requested, "have- have a biscuit, if you like..."

"Why did you send for me?" Kadaman asked, ignoring her words. He knew his straightforwardness bordered on rudeness, but between tax overviews and letter orders he did not have the time for this.

Nasadi bowed her head, fixing her gaze on the carpet. "It- it has been a week since the wedding, and... and..." She hesitated, then drew a deep breath. "I felt like I should tell you..."

Another pause. The air was heavy. What in the Sun's name was she attempting to say that was so difficult to articulate? Finally Nasadi got the words out. "I am not trying to replace your mother."

Whatever Kadaman had expected, it was not this. He was at a complete loss for words. The possibility had not even occurred to him. Nobody could replace Mirida, whether they tried or not. There was nobody who was as loving, as selfless, as courageous as she had been. In the end it had killed her. Or she had been killed because of it.

But none of that was Nasadi's doing. She had offered Kadaman a genuine act of kindness, a step towards reuniting his broken family.

Perhaps he had misjudged her. She was quiet and shy, inexperienced, and because of that she made mistakes. But she was trying.

"I know," he managed to force the words out. Even almost four years after his mother's death it still pained Kadaman to think of her passing, and Jiran's role in it. "I appreciate your thoughtfulness."

Nasadi would not speak against her husband, placing her concern for others above her personal safety. She would not die for what she believed to be right. Instead she endured, silently hoping for a better day, keeping herself and her loved ones safe. Hers was a different kind of courage, but courage nevertheless.

Kadaman was unsure whether he would ever hold her in the same esteem as he held Mirida. Still, Nasadi deserved a second chance.

For the first time he wondered how much she knew about her husband. Did she know about the sacrifices? Did she know about the circumstances of Mirida's death? Had she pieced the puzzle together just like he himself had? He would never find out, not without placing Nasadi in a terrible position, possibly endangering her life as well, and he would not do that to her.

Nasadi smiled in relief, her posture relaxing. "I was afraid," she admitted, still talking to the carpet, "that you and your brother might think that. It has not yet been four years, and everything - the engagement, the wedding - it happened so quickly."

"Too quickly?" Kadaman asked softly, finally lowering himself onto one of the chairs.

Nasadi abruptly looked up and met his eyes. He saw a mixture of fear and submission, masking her agreement. "No, no- I would not presume- I thought you might have thought... Please forget I said anything."

She was only a few years older than Kadaman, almost twenty years younger than her husband. Had she not dared to question either when Jiran had begun to court her, and when he had proposed to her? Had she even had a choice? Kadaman did not need to ask. Even if he could have done so, he already knew the answer. Jiran had chosen her to be his new wife, and all Nasadi had been allowed to do was smile and nod.

Maybe she did not want to be here. Maybe she cried at night, longing for Sunfall, for her old room in her parents' house. Maybe she had had a lover or a crush, someone she had dreamt of spending her life with. Maybe she had wanted to grow old in the same place where she had grown up, under the warm and comforting gaze of the desert sun.

By what right had Jiran torn her away from all that she knew and loved?

Nasadi was still watching him, wide-eyed like a frightened animal. Kadaman would never get used to being feared. "I did not mean to alarm you," he said. "I understand that the past few weeks have brought you a lot of changes. It is only natural, I think, for you to have to settle in."

It was almost more than he could bear to see Nasadi nod eagerly, gladly accepting the excuse that he had given her. He added, forcing an end to the conversation, "Please, if there is anything I can do for you, do not hesitate to call on me again."

"Thank you," Nasadi whispered, still a little shaken. "That is kind of you."

Kadaman bowed and left the chamber that had once been Mirida's. The fear in Nasadi's eyes haunted him as he fled back to his room. He needed time to process his sudden insight. Nasadi was afraid of her husband.

What if she was right?


	4. Sunset

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The sky is turning red, the sun is beginning to set. We know the day is drawing to its end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm sorry. Sorry not sorry, but also actually sorry. Just read it, you'll understand why.

The summer sun hung low in the red sky, like a dying man desperately clinging to life. Kadaman could almost feel it reach out to the night, eager and wary at the same time, as it watched the shadow creep ever closer, slowly engulfing it and drowning out all its light.

The sun was setting into the Forbidden West, a deserted wasteland, unknown and hostile to all who ventured out. None knew how vast those strange stretches of land were, which people lived there, what their manners were. To set foot inside the Forbidden West meant death, as certain as plunging headfirst into an abyss. Yet the abyss in front of him was deeper and darker. An endless night without any hope for a new dawn. It was heavy and menacing, and yet it seemed peaceful. There were no shadows in the darkness.

But in front of the darkness lay the blood-red sands, the loose limbs, the mutilated bodies. So many had fallen today. Uthiliv, one of his best friends among the kestrels. Linan, of whom Gavarid had always remained fiercely protective. Araved, the youngest of them all, only sixteen years old and with the enthusiasm that matched his age. Hundreds, perhaps thousands of nameless others, driven into the ring like the Banuk shamans had herded the Behemoth in earlier.

Their bodies were carried away and burned, three now anonymous soldiers with them. But Kadaman remembered. Uthiliv, Linan, and young Araved.

The bodies were carried away, but the desert remembered. Its sands were soiled, stained red with their blood and that of the dying sun. It had absorbed too much pain. It could not take any more.

There should not be any more grief. Then again, what difference would one more make?

Kadaman could not take any more either. He did not remember any time before his hands had been stained with blood, of strangers who had never wronged him and now that of his friends as well. It was his fault. He had caused nothing but grief. It followed him everywhere, like a shadow. There was only one way of escaping it.

There were no shadows in the darkness.

He heard a sound as of a soft gasp behind him. He did not need to turn around to know who it was. Nobody but Avad would come after him.

Of course Avad had come to offer his consolation. That should not have surprised Kadaman. However, numb with sorrow and loss, he had for a moment completely forgotten about everything except his own pain. He had forgotten about his brother.

Avad would weep for him, without ever understanding. It was beyond cruel, beyond selfish, to leave him behind. But when Kadaman heard his own name being whispered, he was the one crying. Not even for Avad or for his friends. He wept for himself, every tear piercing the veil of comforting darkness that had almost fully drawn him in. Had Avad not been there, he would have fallen into the shadows with the dying sun, only without rising again at dawn. There was no dawn.

Worst of all was that he had not feared the darkness. Now that he was being pulled back, it was the prospect of life and light that terrified him.

The air stirred. It was a while before Kadaman had regained enough control of himself to turn his head and look. Avad stood beside him, concern in his eyes. It was so thoughtful of him to be there, so kind. Even though he loved his little brother with all his heart, Kadaman wished he had stayed away. His presence only made everything harder.

"Why?" Kadaman finally whispered, almost choking on that single, simple word. Why did they have to die? Why will you not let me go? Why does it hurt so much?

"I don't know," Avad said quietly, his voice trembling as if he too wanted to cry. "But I'm here with you."

The sun had set, but for some reason Kadaman's spirits were lifted. Life seemed a little less terrifying.

***

 

That spring, at high noon, Nasadi gave birth to a baby boy. Almost nine months after the massacre at Sunfall. Kadaman did not like to think about what that might imply.

Since the massacre he had not looked at his father in the same way as before, and he suspected he never again would. But none of it was the baby's fault, and for his sake Kadaman was willing to try and forget his suspicions.

This was Nasadi's first child and she had been in labour for hours. Kadaman and Avad had received word when the baby was born, but they were only allowed to see him the next day, separately. Nasadi was still recovering. Rumour had it that childbirth had almost killed her, even though everything had turned out alright in the end.

Avad visited her first. He did not stay inside for long, and leaving the room he was a bit pale.

"He's so small," he blurted out as soon as he saw Kadaman waiting for him. "Nasadi asked if I wanted to hold him, but he's so small! I almost didn't even dare look at him for fear of, I don't know, doing something wrong."

"You have never been near a baby before," Kadaman observed.

As he spoke he realised where this difference between them came from, but Avad was not quite as quick. "Wait, and you have? When? Why wasn't I there?"

"You were," Kadaman said over his shoulder, opening the door to Nasadi's room. "You were the baby."

Avad blinked once, then laughed. "Oh. I guess that explains it."

Nasadi was in bed, humming a lullaby for the baby in her arms. She was alone except for two servants in a corner, much to Kadaman's surprise. He had expected Jiran to be there with her just like he had done when Mirida had given birth to Avad. Almost twenty years ago, before the Derangement. This baby had been born into a world of violence, of shadows.

Nasadi looked up when he closed the door behind him, a weary smile on her face. "You came to see us," she stated, as unassuming as always. "That is kind of you."

"Of course I came to see my family." There was no need to lie to her. Kadaman truly saw them as such. "Are you both doing alright?"

The subtle emphasis on 'family' did not elude Nasadi, and she brightened visibly. "I am recovering," she said. The baby opened his eyes at the sound of his mother's voice. "Yes, and you are perfectly good, aren't you?" she cooed to him.

"We named him Itamen," she continued. "I never imagined how it would be to have a child... Would you like to hold him?"

Although Kadaman had hoped to, the question still took him somewhat at unawares. "Yes," he answered immediately, forgetting himself for a moment. He must have sounded far too happy and enthusiastic, so he added, "if it is alright with you."

Itamen seemed a little bit panicked when his mother handed him over to this new person he had never seen before, but he did not cry. Perhaps he sensed that he was safe even in the arms of this stranger, just as Kadaman felt safe around him and Nasadi.

"Do you not want children of your own?" asked Nasadi, noting the care with which he held little Itamen.

Kadaman smiled wistfully. "I would need to marry someone first." A sketch of Valinah Khane Pir and a tiny white snowflake crossed his mind, but he dismissed the thought. "I do not think I am quite ready for that."

As if summoned by his words the shadow reached out again. How long before he could no longer hold it at bay? At this rate it was only too likely that he would not live to see Itamen grow up, let alone father a child. Perhaps later, sometime in the future, if he managed to lift the shadow somehow. For now all he could do was attempt to weather it, just as the kestrels at Sunfall had to withstand the desert sandstorms as part of their training.

The shadow had first fallen on him with Mirida's death, but had intensified after the Sunfall massacre. On some days he almost wished he had thrown himself off the balcony then, regardless of everything else. Regardless, even, of Avad. Still he could never quite bring himself to long for that. Sooner or later, whenever the shadow returned, he remembered his brother's support and drew from it the courage to keep going on. While it lasted. He lived in constant fear that one day, it would not be enough.

He gave the baby back to Nasadi. After wishing them both well and promising to return soon, he left them. They seemed to belong to a different world, one of light and merriment, one without room for darkness. One in which Kadaman did not - could not - belong, not now at least. Hopefully he would rejoin them someday.

If there was one thing that had kept him alive since the massacre, it was hope. Hope for a new dawn, for a better day to come. Someday everything would be alright, the sorrows would be behind them, and the sun would shine untouched by any shadow. He had to believe that, or perish.

He believed it with all his heart. Ironically, that belief had led him to his death.

***

 

After almost four years of isolation in his world of shadows, light began to seep through. At first it was a very brief moment, an exceptionally beautiful sunrise or a letter from Palavis, that brightened his day. In time these fragments of a happier life became more frequent. There still were days on which Kadaman wished he had never been born, but he was getting better. As long as he was careful, the shadow would not return. Hopefully.

Which was good. He could not afford distractions, especially not now. He was an excellent liar, had covered for Avad many times before, but it had never been as imperative that he succeeded as the past week.

Six days ago Avad had confided in him, whispering for fear of being overheard. He had made a new friend. Her name was Ersa, and she was of the Oseram tribe. As a reward for surviving the Sun Ring she had been made a palace servant, and so had met Avad.

Their friendship had to be kept a secret. If Jiran found out about them Avad would definitely be punished, and Ersa executed. That Avad trusted Kadaman with it meant a lot. Not so long ago Kadaman had feared they were drifting apart, but their shared secret had brought them closer again. It was yet another of many new sources of light and joy that made him glad to be alive, a feeling he cherished.

Today's situation was both simple and immensely complicated. Avad had locked himself in his room instead of working in his office on whatever he was supposed to be doing, because Ersa was scheduled to clean the personal chambers this morning. They had planned their meeting carefully. There would not have been a problem at all if Jiran had not decided that he needed both Kadaman and Avad's opinions on the defence of the eastern border fortresses.

Now that Kadaman thought about it, a good many things would not have been a problem if not for Jiran.

Kadaman had been summoned by a servant, but Avad was of course impossible to trace. Instead of accepting it and moving on, Jiran demanded his presence. On the one hand his insistence was tiresome, on the other, Kadaman secretly found the situation hilarious as well, or would have if there had not been so much at stake.

Facing his father he could not very well show either his annoyance or his amusement. "I understand that you prefer to consult both of us, and I agree that it is wise. However I do not know for certain where Avad is. Do you want me to look for him?"

Jiran frowned, clearly unsatisfied with the evasive reply. "No. I will send a servant to summon him."

"That will take forever," Kadaman stated calmly. "We both have countless other duties to get back to. It will be quicker if I search for him, or if we manage by ourselves."

Continuing to oppose his father's will was a risk. Kadaman knew this. He had long assessed the situation, and come to the conclusion he had no other choice. If he succeeded in convincing Jiran that it was simply not worth the inconvenience, all would be well.

"Were you not my trueborn sons, this constant disobedience would have its consequences." Jiran's voice was cold and dark like a sunless night. It was the voice in which he pronounced his judgement, with which he had ordained the deaths of thousands.

It took every shred of composure Kadaman possessed to fight back his distress. Four years after the massacre his grief had not lessened. Instead it had morphed into something similar to a war trauma. This was not his first time experiencing this severe a reaction to the memory. He had learned to keep it under control by now, invisible to anyone else. The better part of the day would pass before Kadaman regained full control of his emotions and was again able to divert his thoughts from that horror.

Then his father smiled. "Had I not known better I might have interpreted it as treason."

If that was supposed to be a joke, Kadaman did not find it particularly funny. He forced himself to smile as well, ignoring the uncomfortable, icy coldness settling in his chest. It felt wrong to jest about this if the appropriate sentence for treason was a horrible, painful death.

"Alright then," Jiran conceded. "Since I still have one son willing to do his duty, advise me."

Kadaman barely listened to his father's explanation of the problem. He thought of Avad and Ersa. How happy they were when they were together even for a moment. All the lies, all the secrecy, in this case it was worth it.

***

 

At age four, just like Kadaman and Avad before him, Itamen began his lessons. His tutor was the same as theirs, now an elderly man who had become tired of teaching, instead preferring to busy himself with his books and research. As a compromise, he taught Itamen to read excellently, then proceeded to instruct him to study this or that scholarly, bone-dry glyph by himself, and later question him about it.

His approach would not even have worked with an older child, let alone with one who was basically still a toddler. Although Itamen could read the words, their meaning was far beyond his understanding.

He found help from whichever adult was near at the moment. Usually that was Nasadi, occasionally Kadaman or Avad. Once or twice he had asked Jiran's advisors. Who could resist, after all? Who would not abandon lists of inventories, incomes and expenses, diplomatic letters, to teach little Itamen the basics of history? The only one who either did not know or did not care was Jiran.

After a few failed attempts Kadaman and Avad had developed a teaching method that worked perfectly. They were rather proud of it. One read from the glyph, or more often, summarising and simplifying, retold the story in a more interesting, more exciting way. The other, usually Avad, re-enacted the events with the help of Itamen's two dolls, Tasha and Shasha. Despite the name, Shasha was a boy, and Tasha was his sister. Except when they took on the roles of famous historical figures.

Today, Shasha became Sun-King Hivas, their grandfather, and Tasha his eldest child Sadeva, who would have inherited the throne had she not been born a woman.

Even then, her father might have preferred her younger brother Jiran over her. But now was not the time to expand on that. The story had to be kept simple and entertaining. The complicated rules of succession were neither.

"You cannot be king because you're a girl," Shasha-Hivas wailed, folding his arms. "Your brother is going to rule, not you."

"Then you and your court are stupid," spat Tasha-Sadeva, turning around and stomping off. 

Kadaman smiled. The truly fascinating thing about these little pieces of theatre was that they were probably much more accurate than the stylised, literary accounts recorded in the glyphs.

"Sadeva left Meridian," he narrated while Avad swapped Shasha's paper crown for a small wooden sword. He was now a bandit. They had to change sometimes, since there were only two actors available to them. "She crossed the Great Lake near Brightmarket and made for the Long Rush. A group of bandits lived there."

Itamen nodded, already having noticed Shasha's switch of costume and guessed its meaning. He always read the glyph himself before searching help, and so knew its contents although he did not understand them.

Avad's dolls took over again. "Hello, I'm Sadeva, eldest child of Sun-King Hivas. I want to join your gang."

"What?" asked bandit-Shasha, bending backwards in surprise. "You what?"

"I'm joining your gang," Tasha-Sadeva repeated. "But we need to change a few things before we start."

These plays were always improvised. They had to communicate with no more than occasional glances and nods.

At a quick sign from Avad, Kadaman continued. "Sadeva did not like the sight of blood. It made her feel sick." Sadly, her brother did not share her squeamishness. "Therefore she and her bandit group only attacked when it rained. They attacked travellers to and from Meridian, merchants, but mostly patrolling guards. Nobody knew where they went after the rain stopped. Until one of her own men betrayed Sadeva, and she was captured by Hivas' soldiers."

He glanced at Itamen, who was still listening breathlessly. Sadeva's tale would not have been his own choice for a four-year-old child. He hoped they would succeed in downplaying its most gruesome elements.

"I finally caught you," Shasha-Hivas exclaimed. Realising that he was not wearing the paper crown, Avad quickly put it back on. "Now you will pay for your crimes."

Tasha-Sadeva might have shrugged if she had had shoulders. "Uh huh. Sure. You're still stupid."

A bit anticlimactic perhaps, for someone just sentenced to death by their own father. Kadaman briefly wondered how he would have felt, then checked himself. This was not the time.

"Sadeva was buried," he recounted, "up to her neck in the desert sands, while her father watched." He almost flinched at the thought. "Hivas had granted her this small mercy: to not be tortured to death, even to have a chance of escape."

He paused. The remainder of the tale had always unsettled him, even though he did not know why. "For a full day Sadeva endured this cruel ordeal - for it was torture as well, only different. She endured silently." Despite the emotional turmoil she must have felt, despite the pain, she had remained unbroken. Kadaman had never met his aunt, but admired her strength nevertheless. "The evening fell, the sun set, and yet she spoke no word. But on the second day the clouds gathered and the rains fell..."

Itamen gasped. Meanwhile, Avad had tucked Tasha-Sadeva in between a heap of blankets so that only her head was visible. She wiggled around, struggling out of the sand's grasp. Once she stood upright, she spread her arms. "I'm free! I won! You'll never catch me again." She danced away from her would-be grave.

The story ended there, at least according to the glyph. Kadaman knew its true conclusion, but chose to omit it. "And so Sadeva escaped. Nobody knows what became of her... but she was free."

If Avad noticed his sudden gloom he did not draw attention to it. Tasha-Sadeva and Shasha-Hivas, as if they were real actors, bowed to Itamen, their audience. The audience applauded.

Kadaman briefly wondered whether he should have included Sadeva's death after all. Then again, perhaps it was best to end the story with her triumph, and to leave out the horrors that followed.


	5. Dusk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The end. It's finally here. We're finally here. 
> 
> What matters most, I think, is how you face it.

In autumn the days darkened and the nights grew longer. Waking up to nothing but the faint starlight, stepping outside into the crisp air and watching the sunrise always made Kadaman feel blessed. To see the light spread from the horizon, slow to begin but, in time, illuminating all.

Illuminating yet another day of complicity in the deaths and the suffering. He had no choice, still it tore at him whenever he thought of it.

Perhaps the dawn gave him hope that, just as the sun always rises even in the darkest night, so too one day the shadow that his own father casted would lift, making place for a time of peace and bliss.

He thought of the future, that of his own and that of the realm. The war was tearing everything apart. It would take years to repair his father's damage. A daunting task, but Kadaman was willing to face it nonetheless. He would attempt to make amends, to renew alliances, and ensure that such a war never happened again. He wanted to be loved, maybe admired, but never feared. Like Mirida, someone who took care of you, someone safe. He did not want to be like Jiran.

All his life Kadaman had pondered the meaning of his epithet. Why the dawn? Why the importance placed on it? It had always seemed more than mere propaganda. A hidden message that would reveal itself to him in time. He knew now.

There were footsteps behind him. Assuming it to be one of the guards on night patrol, he remained where he was. Perhaps they would leave him alone if he did not move. He wanted to think without being disturbed.

The footsteps came closer. Reluctantly, Kadaman turned around to see who it was, what they wanted from him, then breathed in relief. Not a guard or a servant, but Avad.

"Good morning," his brother beamed, cheerful as always. He too gazed out across the land. The sky was still dark, but dawn was close now.

"You sure are up early," Kadaman remarked, half teasing.

Avad laughed softly. "Hypocrite."

Both were silent for a while, until he added, almost a confession, "I miss you."

The words hit Kadaman like a red-hot branding iron slammed against his chest, burning through his protective layers. He did not reply. Instead he looked away, back at the flushed horizon. It was all he could do not to burst into tears.

"Did you want to be alone?" Avad asked, his voice wavering just enough for Kadaman to notice.

He was distressed as well, Kadaman realised. The knowledge that he had to offer some comfort made it somewhat easier to speak. He ignored his own grief, storing it away until he no longer felt it. "No, I- no." But he found there was not much to say. Anything he could offer - "I had no choice", even "I miss you too" - sounded inadequate. "I am sorry," he finally said, feeling his throat clench shut.

Avad hugged him tightly, as he had when they were both children, crying after a sacrifice. "I know. It is not your fault."

The first rays were starting to appear above the mountains to the east. The beginning of a new day, one like any other. One without time for quiet, vaguely melancholic moments like this.

A lifetime ago, Mirida had believed that some mysterious power resided in a friendly touch, like a hug. Kadaman remembered that now, holding his little brother close. But their childhood was behind them, they were both adults now. He suddenly noticed that Avad had grown taller than he.

When he finally recovered his ability to speak, his voice was strained. "A new dawn will come." Barely audible even to himself. "When the shadow is lifted..."

***

 

"...when the sorrows are gone, when the Sun radiates its warmth across every land."

"A new dawn will come," Avad repeated, "but you will not be there." He was not blaming or accusing Kadaman, merely stating a painful fact.

"I suppose," Kadaman attempted a smile, "I suppose I will be in your thoughts. Maybe even watching over you."

It was far easier to theorise about the hypothetical than to acknowledge what would soon become reality. They could not delude themselves. They had witnessed more suffering, more infliction of pain, than they would ever be able to overcome. Whatever was going to happen in a moment, in the ring, it was certain to be worse. He knew that now, even though he had not wished to see it before.

The illusion Kadaman had carefully crafted for himself had shattered just after he had finished his plea, mere heartbeats before Jiran pronounced his sentence. Their eyes had met very briefly, and Kadaman, for perhaps the first time in his life, saw clearly. He saw a man who chose death and cruelty at every turn, who had abandoned mercy and charity.

It was a shame that insight had only arrived now that he was about to die and could no longer act on it.

"Are you afraid?" Avad asked, drawing him back to the present, and rightly so. What use was it to keep dwelling on the past? It no longer existed. Inseparably tied to the future, it had vanished about an hour ago. There had never been any time and place other than this. There had never been anyone except for two brothers who had meant the world to each other, saying their final goodbyes.

Was he afraid? "I do not know. I- I think I do not fear death in itself, but..." He had to stop for a moment as the panic threatened to overwhelm him. There were so many possible ways, slowly, cruelly, each more so than the previous. "I am afraid," he finally whispered, "but not because I will die. I am afraid they will succeed in breaking me." It pained him just to speak the words.

He had expected to see horror, perhaps tears, in his brother's eyes. Instead he saw only his own quiet determination reflected back at him. "They will not. I am sure of it." Avad paused, then added, answering Kadaman's still unspoken question, "I am afraid, though. It sounds horribly selfish, but- what will become of me now? Without you?"

Kadaman smiled, lightly laying his hand on Avad's shoulder. "You will be Sun-King after father. You will lift the shadow he casted, repair the damage he caused. I have faith you will be able to do so."

"I do not," Avad replied immediately, almost laughing yet his voice trembled, "but I will try. I will try... to make you proud."

"I am proud of you no matter what," Kadaman said. Like Mirida used to repeat to them when they felt useless, or a disappointment.

He could not help but wonder whether in a few hours he would see his mother again, hear her voice, be held in her warm embrace. When he felt arms around him he thought for a moment that she was here somehow. But it was Avad, of course, crying quietly, seeking comfort from his older brother for the final time. Behind them a man opened the gate to the Sun Ring.

They had had a full hour to say their goodbyes. Kadaman had - naively - expected that to be enough. Now he realised there was so much more he wanted to say, that he should have said long before. But instead of doing that, calmly and elegantly as he usually would, everything came swirling, crashing together. Love and loss, grief, insecurities, the melancholy of past bliss, of dreams and hopes now crushed. They whirled around, each striving for a place in a vessel far too small to contain them all.

He did not attempt to stop them from spilling out, condensed into tears.

The throbbing mass of feelings that he had suppressed and ignored for so long had finally overpowered him. He felt like a child, helpless, yet at the same time he seemed to be looking at himself from a distance, observing that now, finally, he was allowing himself to feel, to cry, to break down for just a short while. That it was alright to do so, that he did not always need to be strong, because he was not alone.

That, no matter what happened, there was always some kindness, some selflessness in the world. Someone willing to extend a hand and help.

It was time to go now, time to let go and let others take over. Kadaman nodded in greeting at the two royal guards, come to escort Avad to his seat. "Take care of my brother," he ordered them. The guards bowed their heads, taking a step back to wait until they had finished saying their goodbyes.

They stood facing each other. Although they tried to maintain their composure, Kadaman could still discern the pain Avad desperately attempted to hide from him. He wondered what he himself looked like.

Kadaman took a deep breath. "May the light of the Sun guide you and protect you, my brother. May you be kind, and just, and gentle... and may you be safe."

"And may you-" Avad's voice gave way. What wishes were left for someone who was about to die? "May you pass swiftly into the Sun's embrace, where no shadows nor pain can ever reach you."

With that they parted. One to die, the other to live. Avad, flanked by his guards, watched as Kadaman approached the gate to the Sun Ring.

The tall wooden doors were already open. A man, presumably the gatekeeper, stood beside them. Kadaman greeted him as he passed him by.

Then the man burst out, close to tears, "I am sorry, Your Radiance. You did nothing to deserve this. And what- what will become of the Sundom with you gone?"

Kadaman turned around, smiling warmly at the man whom he had not known before this moment, whose kindness and concern awoke both courage and compassion inside him. "Do not weep for me," he said, and he was surprised at the clarity of his voice. "A new dawn will come even in the darkest night." The gatekeeper managed a wobbly smile back at Kadaman.

He entered the ring. Everything seemed larger from this perspective. All around him frightened men and women were cheering for his death. Tallest of all loomed the royal balcony. Jiran leaned backwards in his throne, his countenance entirely unmoved.

Slowly Kadaman walked towards the ring's centre and knelt on the stone pavement stained with twenty years’ worth of blood. He closed his eyes, took a deep breath before looking up at Avad. He had to endure for his brother's sake. He would not be broken.

Behind him the gate fell shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So, here we are. We know what happened next. Avad fled Meridian, returned about half a year later and defeated his father. He became Sun-King, not Kadaman. But I believe he would not have become the man he was without his brother.
> 
> Thank you so much for reading! I hope you... enjoyed feels like the wrong word, but anyway, I hope you had some fun reading this, I hope you felt things reading this, and if you did please talk to me in the comments! I love to talk about Kadaman and Avad, about my own headcanons and also I'd really like to hear what other people think or headcanon about them. Thanks again! :D


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